


Mes Amis, Mes Amis

by EnjolrasWould



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Barricade Day, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Light Angst, No one is dead yet, Non-Graphic Violence, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 11:41:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1743467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnjolrasWould/pseuds/EnjolrasWould
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was always a fight that brought them together.<br/>-<br/>An origin story of how Enjolras met each of his friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fighting Words

**Author's Note:**

> This story was the result of a question I was asked nearly a year ago: how did Enjolras meet Combeferre, and how did he meet the rest of his friends?
> 
> I played around with a dozen ways to answer. It was such a big question with so much potential, and I wanted to answer it properly. I decided that a long story was the best way to answer, and what better day to post that story but Barricade Day?
> 
> I've had fun staying up until five in the morning every night the last week writing this. I hope you all have just as much fun reading it!

It was always a fight that brought them together.

~

Fall, 1816

The sky was gray and everyone was shouting.

In the courtyard of a boys’ school somewhere in the south of France, war was being waged. In less melodramatic terms, two ten years old boys were having a fist fight.

In this uncoordinated whirlwind of small, inexperienced fists and boyish rage was the occasional flash of gold. This was the weak sunlight glinting off the brilliant curls of the smaller of the two fighters. Surrounded by a ring of his cheering classmates, this small and delicate looking child was thoroughly beating his opponent into a pulp. 

Were any of the other boys present capable of writing poetry, they would have compared him to a lightning bolt, or a young lion set loose on its prey. Because they were ten year old boys and not poets, they did little more than shout.

As his classmates cheered him on, the blonde haired boy finally pinned the other to the ground, brutally slamming fist after fist into his face. The other boy had been fighting back valiantly before, but had since given up and was only trying to get away now. Whereas before they had been evenly matched, now he was at the disadvantage. The fighter attacking him was just as battered but twice as stubborn, completely relentless. It was only when a tooth jumped and clattered to the feet of the crowd that someone intervened.  
This wild boy may very well have broken the other’s nose were it not for the intervention of a third party.

A tall boy in a pair of spectacles pushed through the crowd, shoving back against his classmates when they tried to keep him from entering the fray. Without hesitation, he lunged forward and grabbed the back of the fighter’s small waistcoat, hauling him back off of his victim. The fighter did not strike out at his captor. He allowed himself to be dragged away. The fight was over.

The crowd, quickly bored without any violence to ogle at, drifted away, grumbling about their fun being interrupted. The receiver of the beating, trying unsuccessfully not to cry, picked up his tooth and went running towards the infirmary. Doubtless, he'd be fetching the professors to deliver justice upon his attacker.

Said attacker, his golden hair tangled and his heart pounding, had hardly fared much better. No teeth were lost but it was obvious that his eye was painfully blackened, and his knuckles were split open. Watching his opponent flee, he allowed the tall boy holding him to settle him underneath a tree, refusing to meet the other’s eye.

“Well?” he asked, arms crossed, “What do you have to say for yourself?”

"You didn't have to break it up. I would've stopped," the fighter growled after a moment, finally snapping a daggered glare at the taller boy, who raised an eyebrow in response.

"Are you so sure? You might have broken his nose if I hadn't stopped you," he replied, turning and sitting down under the tree as well, careful to give the angry boy plenty of room, "You looked ferocious."

"I am ferocious," the fighter snarled, crossing his arms in indignance, "And he started it anyway. It was my job to end it, not yours."

"It was too my job," the other insisted, turning to face the angry boy, "Fighting is awful. It makes me feel sick. I would've stopped you sooner if that crowd wasn't in the way, that bunch of vultures."

The fighter turned his back on the other, face red with frustration and something akin to shame. "You really thought I was going to hurt him bad?"

“That’s what it looked like,” the spectacled one replied, crossing his own arms now. They sat like this for a moment, angrily mirroring each other, before the blond broke the stare and dropped his gaze to his knuckles, where he began picking out the grit that was ground into the wounds.

“Well I wasn’t going to hurt him very badly, alright?” he mumbled, sounding saddened by the other’s accusations, “He just made me mad, that’s all.”

Something moved by his in the corner of his eye. It was the hand of the tall boy, and in it was an offered handkerchief. The fighter took this as the offering of friendship that it was and took it gratefully, using the small cloth to clean his wounds.

"What'd he even do to you to make you that mad anyway?" the tall one asked quietly, watching the blond clean the grit from his split knuckles. At this he looked up through his untidy hair, eyes sharp and clear, as though he was wondering what the other was looking to gain from all of this. When his stare was met with no hostility, he dropped his gaze back to his knuckles and scrubbed a little harder.

"It's my first day here," he mumbled softly, anger still sharpening his tone, "I wanted to start off on the right foot and make some friends, but they were mocking me. The one I beat up called me a girl because of..."

Here the fighter trailed off, reaching up to tug at one of his curls. Despite the shade under the tree and the dullness of the sky, his hair still seemed to catch the feeble light and throw it back stronger, nearly glowing in the shadow of the afternoon.

"And you decided to fight him because he called you names? That's no reason to fight," the spectacled one spoke up, cautiously laying a sympathetic hand on his companion's shoulder. He expected the other to tense up at the touch, but was surprised to feel the other's form relax under his grip.

"That's not why I fought him," the blond one sighed, avoiding the eye of the taller boy, "I didn't even realize he was insulting me."

"Didn't realize?"

"Yeah," the smaller boy continued, still looking down. He scrubbed the handkerchief over his hands roughly, as though the harsh motion was keeping him steady, "I didn't know it was supposed to be insulting. He wasn't saying it mean, just kind of like he was telling a joke."

Here the tall boy reached over and took the handkerchief away with gentle hands, as the fighter had reopened most of the wounds on his hands in his fury. At this rate, he'd never be able to wash all the stains out of his shirtsleeves. He did not, however, remove his hand from his new friend's shoulder.

"I guess your friends never teased you back at home, did they?" he asked softly, and the kindness in his voice took the last of the fight out of the other. The fighter slumped down, sniffing heavily, fiddling distractedly with the cuffs of his shirt.

"No," the blond finally mumbled in reply, still staring down at his hands even though he could no longer fuss with his wounds, “I don’t have many friends at home. I don’t like the children in town because they’re all… pompous.”

“You have no friends at all? Don’t you get lonely?” the other asked, brow furrowing in concern for his classmate. He needn’t have worried, however, for the blond was shaking his head.

“I have friends. I play with the servants’ children, and we get along very finely. They’re the closest thing I have to real friends. That’s why I fought that boy. When I didn’t understand that he was insulting me, he called me stupid and told me to go back to sweeping floors like servant girls are supposed to.”

The angry boy started picking at his hands again, but didn’t pull at any of the forming scabs.

“So you did want to hurt him for insulting you,” the one with glasses said, nudging the other to continue. The fighter violently shook his head, however, tears springing to his eyes but not falling.

“No, that’s not it at all. He said servant people are stupid, and that isn’t true. I could tell that time that he was being mean and I didn’t like it,” he nearly shouted, hands curling into fists, “Just ‘cause you’re poor doesn’t mean you’re not as good as people with lots of money. People are just people.”

“That’s why you were fighting him so roughly,” the taller boy replied, somewhat in awe, “You were defending someone else.”

“They’re my friends,” the smaller one insisted, sniffing and wiping his nose on his sleeve, “I wanted to stand up for them, even if they’re afraid of me, sometimes. I think it’s because my family is rich. They shouldn’t be afraid of me, though. I wouldn’t hurt them.”

This thought gave him pause. He chewed at his bottom lip, then looked up at his companion with a softer gaze than before. "I'm sorry that fight scared you. I guess I overreacted a little."

"That's ok," the tall boy replied, then broke out in a friendly grin, "Technically, he did start it, but next time you should fight with your words instead of your fists."

The smaller boy looked down, hesitant, then smiled back at his companion. Shyly, he asked, "Are we friends now?"

Taking his hand from the other's shoulder and scrambling up in a jumble of spidery limbs, the spectacled one extended the same hand in greeting. "I'm Jean Etienne Combeferre."

The blond hesitated again, seeming to battle something inside, then jumped to his feet and shook his friend's hand. "I'm Jean Florent Enjolras."

This prompted a laugh from then now-named Combeferre. "We have the same first name!"

"Then we can call each other by our last names," Enjolras suggested, looking down with an unexpected blush. "I don't like my middle name."

"Then I'll just call you Enjolras, Enjolras," Combeferre replied, and both boys laughed softly, both quietly marveling at the ease with which they had become friends.

Just then, an angry voice echoed across the courtyard, the wind ominously picking up as the echo bounced to the children under the tree. Other students in the schoolyard scattered, and Enjolras suddenly remembered exactly what circumstances had led to him meeting Combeferre in the first place.

The headmaster was making his way across the schoolyard, boys scrambling to move out of his way. He had come to punish Enjolras for his role in the fight.

Enjolras felt someone grab his hand, and looked over to find Combeferre had taken hold of him, choosing to bravely stand by him even as the terrible form of the headmaster bore down upon them.

And even though Enjolras knew he was in trouble, he was unafraid.


	2. A Brother to Us All

Fall, 1822

Enjolras had a first day of school tradition: fighting.

Not that he had ever planned on making it a true tradition. That would involve sitting down and saying, "Yes, I would like to start every school year with a heaping helping of bodily harm, please and thanks," which no sane person would actually do.

And yet, regardless of his behavior, a fight always found him before the first day of classes was over. Without fail, every single year since he had begun school, Enjolras had ended the day with Combeferre patching up his wounds and lecturing him, partially gently and partially angrily, on how the fight could have been avoided.

Combeferre’s dislike of fist fights often did little to prevent the yearly fights, however. In the heat of the moment, Enjolras wasn’t thinking of his friend’s pacifist ways. Anger made him more eloquent, but it didn’t necessarily make him more rational.

That same lapse in practical thinking is what led him into trouble on his first day of law school.

He was standing up in his seat, sleeves rolled up and fist pounding the desk in front of him, sunlight from the window overhead illuminating the dust that sprang up. It was the thick golden light that always penetrated the dark clouds just before a storm. It almost hovered around Enjolras, the glow and the flying dust shimmering in a vague halo about him. He had lost none of the sweetness of his youthful features; if anything, he was on his way to growing from cherubic to angelic. And he had taken Combeferre's words to heart: fight with your words, not your fists.

Never mind that his words often ended up bringing on fists anyway.

"You are supposed to be educated men, my fellows," Enjolras spoke, gesturing to his classmates. Half of them were listening raptly, gaping up towards this ethereal figure that had suddenly appeared in their classroom, "You have been gifted with opportunity, and yet you waste it! While children cry in the streets for want of crumbs, you sit in your well-tailored coats in great universities as this, ignorantly speaking words that will damn these same children to lives of misery. You all claim to be educated gentlemen, yet by the opinions you express I would not grant you either title. The people of your nation are crying out for salvation, and you-"

"Enough, Monsieur Enjolras," the professor spoke up from the front of the theater. He removed his glasses, his hand half trembling in anger, half trembling from age, "This is a respected institution and I refuse to have you disrupt the education of these young men with your nonsense. You are dismissed until tomorrow's class."

Enjolras, who had climbed his chair in the heat of the moment, gave the professor a mighty glare. This accomplished nothing, and with the sniggering laughter of a hundred or so bourgeois students at his back, Enjolras gathered his belongings and left the place.

That wasn't the end of things. Enjolras loitered outside the university, angrily watching the people pass, recounting what was said and what could have been said and what trouble would come from revealing his political leanings. All things considered, there was a great chance this would all be brushed off as him being young and inexperienced. Of course, there was always the chance they would throw him out, and then what--

A furious shout interrupted his thoughts. Class had been let out, and a handful of brand new hats were storming in Enjolras's direction.

Underneath those hats were a very large group of insulted young men.

"That's the bastard that said we aren't gentlemen!" the apparent ringleader shouted, his comrades shaking their walking sticks in agreement, "We'll show him what gentlemen we are, right?"

There was a great sound of agreement, and the storm cloud of hats rolled in ever quicker towards its target. Ominously, a crack of thunder rumbled overhead.

There were two options: run and be labeled a loudmouthed coward but escape with his life, or stay to fight and possibly get slaughtered by a gang of sticky fingered bourgeoisie.

Enjolras was no coward.

So once again, the sky was gray and everyone was shouting.

Passersby would later recount that a group of law students was attacked by an archangel, or struck by lightning. Less melodramatic passersby would report that a young gentleman with hair of an alarming shade of gold was seen very competently battling a force of five or six other men.

Enjolras might have taken up fighting with his words, but that did not lessen his natural physical ability. He was not so greatly stronger than the others, nor was he more strategically intelligent. What made Enjolras a great fighter was his absolute stubbornness.

That being said, one would have to be an exceptionally remarkable fighter to take on five or six men, and stubbornness is defined by being unmovable in any direction. Enjolras wasn't losing or winning the fight; he was just holding them off.

He would've been killed, likely, were it not for the sudden intervention of a sudden, unexpected ally.

Something launched itself from the steps of the university, landing nimbly as a cat on the shoulders of an attacking student. With a sickening crack, the fellow's skull hit the sidewalk and he quickly quit the fight, crawling limply to the street where onlookers rushed to assist him.

That same something leapt up again and swung a walking stick with finesse, knocking aside a student who had wrapped his hands around Enjolras's throat. This obstacle fallen away, Enjolras glimpsed his savior: a young man with his hat askew and his smile beaming.

"Behind you!" he shouted, and Enjolras ducked as the stranger again swung his walking stick, bringing it down to crush the hat, (and bruise the head), of another attacker.

There was a hurried scrabbling sound, and a sudden click brought everyone to a stop. The leader of the attackers, blood dripping from a very broken nose, had pulled a flintlock pistol from his coat pocket and had it solemnly aimed at Enjolras's head.

"Make a single move and I'll shoot, you hotheaded fool," he spat, blood spraying out of his mouth with the force of his words, "You're going to stay here until the gendarmes come to arrest you, so help me God."

"Personally, I'd suggest we make a run for it," the stranger spoke up, his voice youthful but friendly. He lowered his walking stick casually and gave a cheerful grin to Enjolras, who was crouched on the sidewalk from where he had begun to pummel the face of another attacker. "Besides, the gendarmes wouldn't be on your attacker's side. You didn't start the fight."

"I did," Enjolras replied, his hands still gripping the lapels of his opponent's coat. "I angered them with some words in class earlier."

"I know, I was there," the stranger replied, twirling his cane idly, "But you and I both know you were only playing devil's advocate, right, my friend? That was no reason for these gentlemen to attack you unprompted."

He said this with a sly lilt to his voice, as though he was telling a joke. This was no teasing, however. This stranger was fighting with his words, but not angry words. Subtle words. Enjolras looked on in quiet respect.

"And what makes you so sure the gendarmes are going to take your side?" their attacker growled, gun still raised in his outstretched hand. At this point, Enjolras became aware of the quiet in the street. The passersby had left. The neighborhood was still and empty.

"Well," the stranger spoke, settling his hat neatly on his curly head, "We certainly weren't the ones pulling guns out, were we?"

The loud echo of the gunshot was amplified by the empty street, the sound bouncing off walls and ringing in Enjolras's ears. For a moment, the concussion made him believe he had been shot, until the screams of people hidden in the stores and apartments around them rang in clearer. Enjolras was unharmed.

The next thing he knew, his hand was gripped tightly by someone else's and they were running, running, running through the streets of the city, dodging citizens and carriages in their escape, stumbling over loose paving stones and beggars until they both came crashing to relief in an alleyway several blocks away.

For a long moment, neither student spoke, too busy trying to capture as much air in their lungs as possible.

"My hat," was the first thing the stranger panted out, leaning against a wall with great, heaving breaths, "That bastard shot a hole straight through my brand new hat."

Enjolras, who had collapsed on the ground with no regard for getting mud on his clothes, glanced up at his savior in confusion. "You nearly were killed and you're upset about your hat?"

"It was brand new," his companion explained, gesturing hopelessly towards his now hatless head, "And these bloodstains in my shirt will take ages to wash out. I won't be able to be seen in public again for days."

Enjolras sat up sharply, brow furrowed in his effort to understand. "You were nearly killed, and you're upset about your hat?"

The two shared a long stare, and the stranger finally answered with a solemn, "Yes."

Enjolras was not prone to giggling, but let it be known that he did in fact giggle his first giggle while sitting in that alleyway.

This prompted the stranger to giggle as well, which sounded much more natural in his joyous voice. Soon the giggling escalated into laughter, then roaring, and then took the sharp drop straight into suffocating silence where the two young men had to lean on each other to stay upright as their hilarity quietly choked them.

When at last they could speak, the stranger held out his hand to Enjolras, who took it gratefully, helped himself up, and shook it.

"Jean Felix Courfeyrac," the stranger smiled, though his face likely hurt from laughing.

"Jean Florent Enjolras," the other replied, too relieved and in too much of a good humor to be shy. "We have the same name, I see."

"That we do," Courfeyrac agreed, sliding his arm companionably through his new friend's arm. The two left the alleyway and began walking down the street, the danger passed and gone.

"I have another friend with whom I share a name," Enjolras explained, "Who also became my friend after breaking up a fight I was in. We call each other by our surnames, as I dislike my middle name."

"Then, Enjolras," Courfeyrac continued, his eyes glittering with mischief, "You'll have to become my friend now as well, seeing as I did save your life."

"I don't object," Enjolras replied, and chuckled softly at the memory of how quickly he and Combeferre had bonded, and how quickly he had befriended this fellow as well, "Though I'm curious as to why you saved my life in the first place."

Courfeyrac shrugged, saying, "I enjoyed your speech in class today. You and I share opinions, though I tend to hide mine under several layers of sly talking and sideways insinuations. Besides, friends don't allow friends to be beaten by bourgeoisie."

"But you and I have only been friends for mere minutes, Courfeyrac. You don’t seem like the type to regularly charge headlong into fist fights," the blond insisted, turning to look over at his curly haired comrade, (who, he realized in that moment, had to be easily a full year younger than him.)

"You're forgetting something important," this younger man spoke up, looking up at the older with immense cleverness in his catlike eyes, "You spoke of liberty and equality in your little upstart today, but you forget. Fraternity is the greatest of all. You were my friend before we even exchanged words."

There was obviously much more to this stranger than Enjolras had suspected.

At this point in their conversation, both students became aware that Enjolras was limping rather badly. In an instant, the smaller man was supporting him, taking the weight off of his damaged foot.

"And as your friend," Courfeyrac continued, "I suggest we have that foot looked at. Where is your doctor’s practice?"

At this, Enjolras smiled. "Actually, he shares my apartment."

And though it was several blocks out of his way, and even though it began to rain, Courfeyrac accompanied him home.


	3. Personal Sovereignty

Spring, 1823

This time around, the sky was blue.

It was a fine spring day, so Enjolras wasn’t even headed towards class that afternoon. In fact, he had taken up skipping class fairly often, (much to the hypocritical complaints of Combeferre, who often skipped class himself in favor of carrying out scientific experiments in their apartment.) He found himself increasingly unable to handle the dry and oppressive air of the place, filled with the equally dry and oppressive words of his classmates.

Besides, there was injustice to fight.

So many homeless wandered the streets. Everywhere Enjolras walked, children and women were crying for help. Men were trapped in prisons for petty crimes, and everyone was even more trapped in the metaphorical prison they called society. Where was the justice for these wanting souls? There were resources and solutions readily available to all, and yet the men of power seemed blind to all suffering. Why did they choose to condemn these innocent citizens to lives of poverty and pain?

And yet, despite these pressing concerns and the growing discontent, Enjolras was not himself miserable.

The fact was that Enjolras was the happiest he had ever been. Having befriended Courfeyrac, (who got along famously with Combeferre, though they could erupt in the most spectacular arguments), he now had two friends with whom he shared an ideology. Never mind that three people alone couldn’t save France from devastation. It was a start.

Everything felt so hopeful, so grand. Enjolras had begun reading as much as he could, late into the night, until he dropped from exhaustion. Some weeks he would stay awake for days on end, reading as much as he could about the history of his nation, about the Republic, about other republics in other places, about the plight of people of every era and creed. The flood of knowledge, (a great deal of which he already knew and was learning afresh, and an even greater deal he was learning for the first time), energized him, invigorated him.

Combeferre said he was feeling giddy from sleep deprivation. He would know, as he had gotten into studying sleep patterns that week and was eagerly taking notes on Enjolras’s habits, (even as he muttered under his breath about the blond needing to take better care of himself.)

Sleep wasn’t important anymore, (and food, sometimes, wasn’t either.) What was important was learning, reading, and writing.

Enjolras began penning speeches, essays, brochures. Nothing was getting published but he didn’t plan on stopping. His natural eloquence easily transferred to the written word, though nothing could beat the pure emotion behind his spoken words.

Greater still than his self-education were his friendships. Combeferre he considered the brother he never had, his closest companion and better half. Courfeyrac quickly became the dearest friend he had ever made. The support and love from them both kept him steady, kept him sane. Often in times of great anger, usually due to a sad sight in the streets or some overheard words spoken unkindly or ignorantly, Enjolras could only stop himself from becoming violent by remembering the words of his friends.

Fight with your words, not your fists. All men are our brothers.

Fights still happened, of course, but Enjolras could restrain himself when he tried. He often could not hold his tongue, but he could hold his fists. It had been a long time since he had thrown the first punch.

Second punches were a different story.

The sound of shouting had drawn Enjolras away from the entrance to the gardens, where he usually took his breaks from writing in order to find a quiet place to read. On this afternoon, however, something was clearly going on and it was making a lot of noise. And following the sound, the budding revolutionary found something that made his blood stir.

A riot in the square just a block away.

His feet itched to run and see what it was about. Doubtlessly, he’d end up getting himself hurt if he did. He struggled with himself for a moment, then took off running anyway.  
Gracefully sliding to a stop right at the edge of the crowd, Enjolras was easily able to see over most of the heads in front of him. In the center of the square the riot was boiling, men crying out in rage and chanting in unison shook their fists at the sky, and several small fights broke out in the tempest like shocks of thunder. On the far side, the gendarmes were attempting to break through and failing miserably.

By the clothing of the people and the slogans they chanted, Enjolras realized that this was, in fact, a worker’s riot. Easily thirty or forty laborers from the surrounding shops must have decided to host a protest in the square that day, and it had quickly soured.

His suspicions were confirmed when a spot finally opened in the crowd and a single worker stumbled out, blood streaming from his nose. He cupped it gently in a paint stained hand, casting further shadows under two eyes that were quickly blackening. The worker caught Enjolras’s glance and glared back, snapping, “What are you looking at, bourgeoisie?” 

The decidedly un-bourgeois Enjolras raised his hands in defense. “I mean no disrespect, citizen. I am a friend to the working man, not an enemy.”

The worker, a small man with a cap firmly pulled down on his head, the paint stains on his hands and clothes marking him as an artisan, regarded the student with mistrust. He finally held out a hand with caution, blood still splattering his palm. It was a test. Enjolras paid no mind to the blood and shook his acquaintance’s hand anyway.

Immediately, the worker seemed put at ease. Some of the stiffness went out of his shoulders, and his gaze softened just enough. He hadn’t been very intimidating to begin with, but some of his sharpness slipped away as Enjolras shook his hand.

“The friends of my field are few and far between, citizen,” the wounded man said, returning to holding his nose in place. The placement of his hands slightly muffled his words, “If your support is sincere, I thank you.”

“You appear to have been fighting rather enthusiastically in there,” Enjolras commented, offering an arm to lead the artisan away from the fight. Noticing the flow of blood coming from his comrade’s face, he quickly offered his handkerchief as well.

“I should be enthusiastic. I helped organize this protest,” the other responded, gratefully taking the cloth.

Enjolras was awed into silence. Here he had been studying and writing and planning, and this brave young man had plunged straight into action, fighting actively for his own rights. An honest to God working class hero! Enjolras was overcome with admiration and clasped his comrade’s shoulder in joy.

“That was incredibly valiant of you, citizen. To risk losing your employment, to risk personal harm or imprisonment, in order to stand up for your rights, in order to demand change of your nation! How remarkably brave!”

The worker turned away, apparently embarrassed. Was the handkerchief not in the way, Enjolras might have seen him blush. He gazed down at his feet a moment, then tipped his head back up again when the modest position proved too messy for his broken nose. 

When it became obvious that the working man intended to stay silent in his modesty, Enjolras excited demanded that he speak up, to explain his beliefs and intentions, to tell him everything. Touched by the richer man’s enthusiasm, he found his voice, all of its previous bitterness replaced by a touching honesty.

“I’m not fighting for my rights alone, my friend. I am fighting for the rights of all men, everywhere. I will not be happy when Frenchmen and only Frenchmen are free from oppression and pain. I will be happy when the people of all nations are free,” he spoke softly, as though pleased yet cautious to be sharing these words with a gentleman of another class. 

He needn’t have worried. Enjolras was delighted and humbled all at once. The two of them walked in silence for a long while, the artisan cradling his injured face and the young revolutionary struck speechless for the first time in a long while.

Finally, his words stumbling out like those of a child meeting his hero, Enjolras asked, “Do you need a doctor for your injuries? My roommate is a medical student and you could-“

“I don’t need charity,” the worker quickly responded, cutting him off, “There’s no need for you to-“

“But there is! This isn’t charity, I swear to you. I’m only just-“

Trying to befriend him, is what Enjolras was trying to do. Something about this stranger felt familiar, a kinship he remembered feeling upon meeting Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

Another quiet moment passed, and Enjolras suddenly held out his hand, bravely making himself look the artisan in the eye.

“I’m Jean Florent Enjolras,” he stated gently, hoping the other would recognize the offering of friendship.

A paint and blood stained hand disengaged from its position on the worker’s face, grasping Enjolras’s with a firm but careful grip. “Jean-Jacques Feuilly.”

Another Jean. “Named after Rousseau?” Enjolras asked eagerly.

“No,” Feuilly sighed, taking his hand back and readjusting the borrowed handkerchief with a wince, “I grew up in an orphanage. I doubt they were naming us after Jacobin philosophers.”

“And your surname, then? Was that given to you by the orphanage as well?” the taller man enquired, intrigued and fascinated by the worker’s tale.

In response, Feuilly shrugged, explaining, “I am a fan painter. I chose it for myself.”

He blushed suddenly, the honest reaction somehow perfectly at home on his roughened face. “It’s sort of a pun. It’s really silly, actually. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I adore puns,” Enjolras insisted, then coughed in embarrassment at his own enthusiasm, “Besides, I think it’s noble for you to choose your own name. I wish I could have.”

Feuilly looked over at his new friend in confusion. “Of course you can. Your name is part of your personal sovereignty, after all.”

If Enjolras hadn’t been won over before, he was won over now.

“Please,” the young revolutionary pleaded, “Come back to my apartment and have my friend look over your wounds. I feel as though we all could have some very fine discussions, and-“

“Alright,” Feuilly interrupted, and smiled for the first time since the two had met, “I’ll come with you, if only because I have to give you your handkerchief back.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras replied earnestly, even though he was the one giving the favor, not taking it.

The two spoke together all during the walk to Enjolras’s rooms, and spoke together at length as Combeferre bandaged Feuilly’s wounds, and the three were joined by Courfeyrac whose energy carried the discussions into the night. Had Feuilly not needed to leave for work the next morning, they could have continued straight until sunrise.


	4. My Friends, My Friends

Summer, 1823

They would call themselves Les Amis de l’ABC.

It was a pun, of course. Courfeyrac had insisted that if they, (being himself, Combeferre, Feuilly, and Enjolras), were to form a group of sorts, they had to come up with a catchy name. Feuilly suggested they make a pun, which prompted Combeferre and Enjolras to stay up half the night brainstorming.

Enjolras was overjoyed. Things were beginning to come together. Now that they were an official group with a real name, they could begin taking action. They could publish papers, organize protests, work with other groups with similar interests! Hell, they could stage an entire rebellion, given half a chance!

And yet…

“What do you mean, we can’t take any action yet?” Enjolras found himself asking, pacing around the room he shared with Combeferre in an effort to release some pent up energy. 

“We know what we want to accomplish, don’t we? Can we really do nothing?”

“I’m telling you, Enjolras, it isn’t that easy,” Combeferre was muttering, anxiously fiddling with something on his desk. Enjolras peeked over his shoulder and found him dissecting a rather large moth. Repressing a shudder, the revolutionary moved to the opposite side of the room to continue his complaints.

“I don’t see why it can’t be easy,” he grumbled, shuffling some papers on his own desk, “We should at least publish a brochure or something. I just don’t see why we have to wait.”

“Enjolras, what we’re doing is dangerous. We have to proceed with caution.”

“Says the man who routinely makes tea from mysterious plants pulled up from the public gardens.”

“That’s science. It’s different,” Combeferre protested, tacking down the last piece to his dismembered moth, “There’s a method to all of my madness, you know.”

“Says the man who tried to convince me there was a ghost living in our wall,” Enjolras retorted.

“I was drunk and I haven’t even made up my mind about whether we have a ghost or just mice, so stop bringing that up,” Combeferre snapped back, then removed his glasses to give the bridge of his nose a rub. “Look, we don’t even have a base of operation yet. This is dangerous business we’re getting into and I’d prefer if we could find a place outside our apartment to work out of. We have enough money to rent another room.”

Enjolras thought it over briefly, then shrugged with a sigh. “You’re right, though I’m not surprised. I just feel as though we’ve done enough standing by. So much is going on and we’re not taking any part.”

“You’re eager, and I’m not surprised either,” the medical student replied, giving his friend a gentle smile, “The time for action will come soon. Just be a little more patient.”

“No need to keep waiting, I’m here!” a cheerful voice rang out, and both men turned to see Courfeyrac crashing through their front door, another new hat carefully balanced on his head. The poor fellow didn’t seem to be able to keep any hat for more than two days, his last hat having made a terrible dive into the Seine. 

“It’s not you I have to be patient for, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras said, reaching to take his friend’s coat. The bright eyed younger gentleman wouldn’t allow him, however.

“Ah, don’t touch! I’m not letting you mangle my coat by folding it and laying it on your bed. Besides, I can’t stay. The three of us are going to catch Feuilly on his way out of work, and then we’re going to a café some friends of mine introduced me to,” Courfeyrac stated, evading Enjolras’s reach with a swift turn. Before either man could protest, their coats and hats had been thrust into their hands and their walking sticks were tucked under their friend’s arm.

Combeferre complied with a shrug, apparently finished studying his moth for the evening. Enjolras, less enthusiastic due to his previous argument but still eager to accompany his friends, allowed himself to be bustled out the door.

“The café Musain, it’s called,” Courfeyrac was saying, calling back over his shoulder as they navigated down the narrow stairs to the street, “Remarkably good oysters, my friend told me. I know Enjolras won’t drink but the wine there is rather good. Better than others, in any case.”

This friendly chatter was kept up during the walk to the shop where Feuilly worked, sitting in the back workshop carefully painting delicate flowers and birds and little scenes onto the handles and screens of fans. 

As always when they visited the fan shop, Enjolras’s heart swelled up with intense unhappiness. Like most overseers, Feuilly’s boss was a bitter man with an incredibly short temper. The smallest things would set him off. Feuilly insisted that the man never struck any of his workers, but Enjolras knew the man was still dangerous. Words could hurt just as much as a strike. That much he was familiar with.

And the abuse didn’t stop there. None of these workers were paid enough. Here they were, skilled artisans, scraping by on three francs a day. They were fine artists, every single one, yet society would hardly toss them crumbs for their labor.

It was ridiculous. Seeing Feuilly, their friend and comrade, work in such a place never failed to darken Enjolras’s mood. It wasn’t until Feuilly himself had joined them, (sheepishly, in his threadbare coat and worker’s cap), and they were all several blocks from the shop that he could tear his mind from its reverie.

“The reason he recommended this one,” Courfeyrac was saying, “Is because the staff is exceptional. They share our leanings, of course, though most of the laboring class seem to.”

“Is that particularly important, Courf?” Combeferre asked, sounding mildly interested, “The way you carry on, it seems like you expect us to spend a lot of time in this Musain.”

“I do expect us to spend a lot of time there,” the curly haired law student replied, glancing back at his friends with a great, flashing grin, “You’ll understand when we get there.”

“There” happened to be a great ramshackle building near the Pantheon, the worn shingle out front proclaiming the name “Musain” in chipped paint. The café was full of young men, likely seeking refreshment after a day of classes.

“You’ve brought us to a student’s café?” Enjolras asked, mildly disappointed. He himself had not attended class more than once or twice a week in several months, and didn’t recognize any classmates here.

“No,” Courfeyrac insisted, taking his friend’s hand and pulling him forward, “I’ve brought you to our café.”

He led the small group through the crowded front room, through the noise of people talking and arguing and drinking, through the smoky smell of tobacco and the sweaty tang of spilled alcohol, down a long corridor that swept past the bar, past the kitchen and the pantry, and around a sharp turn to the right.

The door to a back room stood half open.

Some sort of chill passed over the four. Enjolras, compelled by something like curiosity, pushed the door open the rest of the way.

Just a small room with a window, just a couple tables and chairs, just the size for a crowd of ten or so. Just a little room, turned gold and bronze by the setting sun streaming through the window. Just a dusty back room with a dusty wood floor and a few cobwebs in the corner, and a cold stone hearth, and a faded map of France nailed to the wall.

Distantly, he heard Courfeyrac talking.

“Just a couple francs a month, they told me. As long as we don’t make any more trouble than the students out front, they told me. We’ll still have to pay for drinks of course, but they’re happy for the extra money. Enjolras?”

“Yes?” the revolutionary responded. He had wandered towards the map, allowing his hand to gently brush over the spot labeled “Paris.”

“I think you owe Courf a thank you,” Combeferre said, already removing his coat and hanging it on the back of a chair. He joined his roommate at the map, gently clasping his hand. “If you’re not too busy brainstorming already, of course.”

Enjolras turned to Courfeyrac with eyes glowing, his entire being practically shining. In a highly uncharacteristic motion, he swept his friend into a spinning embrace, laughing in delight. On his third spin, he grabbed Feuilly as well. The tangled young men tumbled into Combeferre, and they all spun a few times more before falling into chairs. Looking around at their smiles, feeling the hum of the café and the kitchen through the walls, Enjolras didn’t know how he could possibly be happier.

Feuilly was the first to speak up, his enthusiasm sparkling in that way it only ever did when he felt comfortable enough to open up.

“We can have our meetings at night, during the week,” he suggested, removing his cap and running a hand through his knotted hair. “That way the weekend will be open for whatever we plan.”

“We can use this room for other things too,” Courfeyrac spoke up, standing up to remove his coat. “It’s ours, after all. We can make it our home base.”

“Our home base,” Enjolras mused. Already, he was imagining the room filled with papers, lit with candles and a fire in the hearth, maps and articles nailed to the walls, books piled on tables and on the floor, a flag hung in the window…

The chatter of friends, secure in a place where opinions could be shared freely. The laughter, the raised tones of voices in debate, the solemn silence and soft murmuring of plan making, the warm community of like-minded people working together…

A sudden chorus of shouts shocked Enjolras from his musings. A great cheer went up, followed by the sound of a gunshot. The four friends leapt from their seats, rushing to the window to see what was happening. The brassy orange light of the setting sun did little to illuminate the dark alleyway that ran alongside the café. When a tremendous crash like tables being pushed over rumbled through the floor, the group realized it was from the café, not the alley, that the sounds were coming from.

“What’s going on?” Feuilly asked, bracing himself instinctively against the window sill.

“Sounds like a brawl,” Courfeyrac replied, moving to the door to investigate. Combeferre moved as though to pull him back, but the medical student was curious as well. Enjolras followed, grabbing his walking stick on the way over as a precaution.

The sound of glassware being broken rang clearly through the hall. There was a sudden blast from a trumpet. Someone started screaming for water, another for the gendarmes, a third for a sword. There was a wild beating sound, like rocks dropped from high above. Most terrifying of all, the sound of running footsteps came echoing down the hall, followed closely by the sound of breathless laughter.

Just as Combeferre’s hand brushed the doorknob, the door was flung open and the three gentlemen were flung back, stumbling against the force that entered their back room. On impulse, Enjolras swung his walking stick with vigor and felt it crack against something. The door slammed closed, there was a frantic scrabbling about on all parts, and still laughter was bouncing off the walls along with the surprised shouts of both Courfeyrac and Combeferre.

The panic died down. Everyone was propped in various positions of confusion. Combeferre had half fallen into the hearth, getting ashes on his shirtsleeves. Courfeyrac had knocked his hat from the table and landed on it, crushing it hopelessly. Feuilly had wrenched the window open and had one leg thrown over the sill. Enjolras himself had, as was his habit in times of great emotion, somehow climbed onto a table. The invading force that caused all this trouble was still lying in a quivering, giggling heap on the floor.

That force took the shape of a bald man in a great patched coat and a small man with a cane, both of whom were lost in the throes of hysterics. The bald man was quickly developing one hell of a lump on his head.

“Bossuet?” Courfeyrac asked, standing stiffly as he had bruised his tailbone, “Laigle de Meaux, is that you?”

The bald man, still catching his breath from his fit, waved weakly, then put his hand to his head.

“That would be me, Courfeyrac. What a wonderful coincidence, seeing you here.”

“I’m more interested,” Combeferre groaned wearily, sitting up to brush ashes from his shirt and only succeeding in blackening his hands, “In why my classmate Joly is involved in this coincidence as well.”

The cane wielding man craned his head back, nearly upside-down, to see who had spoken his name.

“Oh, hello, Combeferre. Sorry for frightening you. I hope you didn’t hurt yourself.”

Feuilly impatiently looked from face to face, finally meeting eyes with Enjolras, who was still crouched defensively on the table with his walking stick. The blond shrugged, climbing carefully off the table. Feuilly followed suit, leaving his spot straddling the window sill and gently closing the window.

“I’m guessing you have one hell of a story, Bossuet,” Courfeyrac sighed with a slight whistle, leaning over to help the older man up, “You definitely owe me that much, after what’s happened to my hat.”

Bossuet reached down to pull Joly to his feet, the smaller man leaning on his cane for support. Combeferre stood as well, and the entire group collapsed into the surrounding chairs. Distantly, a fuss could still be heard being made out in the café.

“It was my old evil genius chasing me again,” Bossuet explained, spreading his hands in a gesture of apology, “Joly and I planned to pass the evening in good company before retiring homewards, as is our custom. Of course, it is also our custom to run into trouble at every turn-“

“Your custom, not mine,” Joly piped up, tapping his nose with the end of his cane. It was a strange gesture, but these two seemed to be strange characters. “My only misfortune is an unfortunate propensity towards ill health.”

“Are you mocking my manner of storytelling?” Bossuet responded, though he didn’t seem offended. He gave the young medical student an affectionate smile, then continued.  
“What my companion says is true. The misfortune follows me wherever I roam, though I don’t curse his company. That evil genius brings excitement to my life, and today, he took the form of a duck.”

“A duck?” Combeferre asked disdainfully. “They’re foul creatures but I doubt they could cause such a ruckus as what we heard out there.”

“I like you!” Bossuet suddenly burst, laughing heartily, “Joly, your classmate makes bird puns! Why have you not introduced us until now?”

“I didn’t know Combeferre made bird puns, or any puns at all. Combeferre, you should make more puns in class,” Joly begged, giving his colleague a winning smile. Despite the slight teasing tone to his voice, Combeferre couldn’t help but smile back.

“In any case,” Bossuet continued, waving as though to push the story forward, “Yes, a duck was the cause of all the trouble today. The beast our friend so aptly called foul seemed to latch on to me while I was taking my customary afternoon stroll through the gardens. The beggar attempted to pickpocket a crust of bread from my pocket, which I simply could not allow. It was my crust, after all, and while I consider myself a generous man, my charity is not extended to anything that-”

“Cut to the chase, Bossuet,” Courfeyrac groaned, giving his friend a half-hearted push, “Not everyone here is used to your orations.”

“I am cutting to the chase, dear Courfeyrac. You see, rather than inflict violence against this creature, who indeed was only driven to theft through the pains of hunger, I took to my feet and made for the exit as quickly as possible. Before I could make my escape, however, the feathered heathen had latched onto my coat and would not release me. At this point, I realized that my foe was not some kindly duck driven to unkind deeds, but one of those devilish geese that sometimes fly in from the farmlands outside the city limits. Geese are inherently unkind and this one had already established a grudge against me. Then-“

Joly clapped his hand over his verbose friend’s mouth, not even releasing his grip when the bald man licked his palm in an attempt to free himself.

“A very long story short, made longer by our friend’s tendency towards oration, Bossuet ran through the streets with an angry goose after him, which convinced several stray dogs to chase the goose, and of course the menagerie followed him back to my rooms, where I was rearranging the furniture to align with the magnetic fields, which I suspect is particularly beneficial to one’s health in cases of-“

Bossuet finally pried himself from Joly’s grip, holding the younger man’s hand away to finish the story himself.

“And an incredibly long story short, we accidentally led a very displeased cow into the Musain, and a brawl broke out when two drunken men both claimed ownership over the cow.”

A stunned silence came over the gathered gentlemen. The only sound was a strangled chuckling coming from Courfeyrac, which got Joly giggling, and soon the two of them were roaring with laughter. Bossuet himself began to laugh so heartily that he had to cover his face with his palm, leaning against the table for support.

“I’m intrigued to hear the whole story,” Combeferre said, the contagious laughter getting to him, “How you managed to go from being attacked by a goose to being chased by a cow is beyond my understanding.”

“I want to know what the gunshot was,” Feuilly added, leaning forward in his seat, nervousness gone, “Was it one of the drunk men?”

“And where in the world did you even find a cow?” Courfeyrac was gasping, and the whole situation was so ridiculous that soon everyone was breathless with laughter, and none of the questions were ever answered.

This time, Enjolras spoke up first.

“You gentlemen are obviously acquainted with Courfeyrac and Combeferre, yet you haven’t introduced yourselves yet,” he asked, gesturing to the two newcomers.

Joly pointed to Bossuet. “He’s Jean Hugues Lesgle de Meaux, thus the moniker of Bossuet.”

Bossuet pointed at Joly in return. “And he’s Jean Mathieu Joly.”

There was a moment of silence.

“More Jeans,” was Feuilly’s only comment.

“I’m not often superstitious, but I think that’s a sign,” Combeferre replied, his smile growing.

“I guess that means we have to keep them, right, Enjolras?” Courfeyrac asked, mischief sparkling in his eyes, “Bossuet is the one who introduced me to the Musain, after all.”

“Courf speaks the truth. He skips his classes to take lessons in delinquency with yours truly,” the bald man grinned, winking at his apparent prodigy. “When he told me that your group was looking for a place of operation, I remembered this little room in the café.”

“Then you share our politics?” Enjolras inquired, glancing sidelong at Courfeyrac. The younger law student ducked his head in mock chagrin.

“You don’t have to be sly about it, friend,” Joly spoke up, eyes bright, “Isn’t it obvious? We’re with you.”

What a night it had been! A home base and two comrades, two friends, gained all at once. As before, Enjolras felt a rush of joy at seeing these gentlemen gathered around him in this back room. He could see his happiness reflected on the faces of the others as well, as golden and true as the last light dying down just outside the window. Yes, they were with him. He was with them. They were together, united.

With a shy glance towards Feuilly for encouragement, Enjolras reached out to shake first Joly’s, then Bossuet’s hands.

“I’m Jean Alexandre Enjolras. Welcome to Les Amis de l’ABC.”


	5. Side Effects

Summer, 1824

Everything smelt like paint, and the sky was blue enough to blind.

Also, his head was pounding, and he couldn’t feel his fingers and toes.

Where was Combeferre?

Enjolras attempted to lurch to his feet but the room was spinning too fast. He fell back to where he had been laying, trying to get a grip on something, anything.

He gripped onto one sensation: the bitter taste in his mouth. Not alcohol, no, he didn’t drink. Drinking made him dizzy, dizziness made him nervous. He was dizzy now, though.

Oh no.

Panic set in, and Enjolras was not the panicking kind. Where ever this place was, he had to get out. Nothing was right. He wasn’t safe like this, not if he couldn’t see straight, or think straight. Where was Combeferre? Why did everything smell of paint? And the sky, so blue, blue, blue, drowning him, burning him, crushing him…

He did not cry, but he did scream. He screamed so loud that it shattered the sky above him, and just as the pieces fell, someone was rushing to his side.

When he woke again, his head was clear, though it was still pounding dully. The moonlight streaming through a nearby window hurt his eyes. Realizing that there was indeed a window, Enjolras looked up to see that the painfully blue sky was not, in fact, a sky, but a ceiling that someone had decided to cover in thick, searingly ultramarine paint.

The entire room, in fact, was painted the same shade. The color hit his eyes and traveled right to his stomach. Without thinking, he turned to the side and vomited.

“I see you’re feeling better,” a familiar voice spoke up, and Enjolras looked up to find Bossuet keeping watch at his bedside. The older man looked down with a raised eyebrow at his hat, which had been place on his lap and which now contained the remains of Enjolras’s breakfast.

“Apologies,” Enjolras croaked, but Bossuet waved him off.

“You’ve been through worse than me today, my friend,” he smiled, waving his soiled hat gently in a dismissive gesture. “Hats off to you for surviving it.”

It was a corny joke and definitely not of Bossuet’s usual caliber, but Enjolras did manage a weak smile.

“Is he finally awake?” a voice rang from the next room. Joly peeped his head around the doorway and, seeing his friend was conscious, leapt into the room and hurried over to the bedside as quickly as possible. Almost immediately, he recoiled from the sight of Bossuet’s unfortunate hat.

“Remove that,” he nearly squeaked, whipping out a handkerchief to cover his nose, “And light the incense on your way out.”

Bossuet, ever of a good nature, winked at the bemused revolutionary and took his leave, pausing on the way out to touch a lit candle to the inside of a strange, boxy lantern, out of which smoke began to float. The paint scent of the room soon faded out, replaced by the scent of various herbs.

“To clear the bad air,” Joly explained, waving his hand to spread the smoke, “The Romans used to use frankincense. I’m experimenting with mixed herbs. You see, the-”

“What happened?” Enjolras asked, interrupting Joly’s impending lecture, “How did I get here?”

“I figured you wouldn’t remember much,” Joly sighed, settling down in a nearby chair, “Don’t you remember anything at all?”

Enjolras had to think for a moment, which was difficult due to the throbbing just underneath his skull.

“I remember… leaving my rooms to purchase a newspaper. There was some sort of disagreement in the square. I interfered. There was a lot of running.”

“You don’t remember anything else?” Joly asked, brow furrowed in concern.

Enjolras, too, wrinkled his brow, but in concentration. “Red. Then blue, and I was…”

He hesitated to say that he was frightened. He prided himself on his courage. Joly did seem to understand, however, because he was smiling gently and apologizing.

“That was the laudanum. Usually it brings on euphoria, but I guess you had a bad reaction to it,” he said, with the tone of voice that usually comes with patting someone softly on the hand. He made no comforting gesture, however, and that’s when Enjolras looked down.

His left arm, which he had been unconsciously holding against his body, was wrapped in a splint with a sling holding it in position. It was now that he realized the pain in his head was echoed by the pain radiating from his wrist.

“Did I break my arm?” the revolutionary asked, incredulous. He moved as though to take his arm from the sling, but Joly was upon him in an instant, keeping him still.

“Yes, you fractured your arm. It isn’t very serious, happily. I once saw a broken bone come right through the skin of a man, you know, and of course that ended badly. You see-“

Joly was interrupted yet again by Bossuet reentering the room, sans hat. He did, however, bring something else: a gentleman of enormous size, wearing a shockingly red waistcoat.

“Bahorel was tired of waiting in the kitchen and said he was going to come in here whether he was allowed to or not,” Bossuet announced, leading the fellow over to the bedside.  
Joly did not seem terribly happy, but he allowed the intrusion, pulling over a third chair while muttering about Enjolras needing his rest.

“So this is the firebrand that caused all the trouble today?” the giant was saying, (what had Bossuet called him? Bahorel?), “An admirable effort! Still, the next time you choose to start a riot, I suggest being better prepared to run from the gendarmes.”

Well, whoever he was, he was loud.

“The gendarmes?” Enjolras asked, sitting up. “Was there a chase?”

This prompted Bahorel to lean back in his chair and laugh heartily and more boisterously than anyone Enjolras had ever known. When finally the laughter was over, Bahorel pretended to swipe away a tear with a great scarred fist, still chuckling as he replied.

“Was there a chase? Truly, my friend, you must have hit your head harder than I thought. I feel sorry for you. You really did have such an adventure today, and now you’ll remember none of it. It’s a genuine shame, my friends, a genuine shame.”

“If it’s such a shame,” the injured man retorted, becoming ever more enraged at everyone’s apparent inability to bring him up to speed, “Then why hasn’t anyone filled me in on the brilliant details?”

Joly began to say something along the lines of, “Don’t upset him, Bahorel,” but the giant was laughing again, this time chuckling while leaning into a hand covering his mouth and staring at Enjolras with sparking eyes, eyes that looked right through him. It gave the poor man a shiver. There was no threat from this Bahorel, but he was a very unusual sort of person indeed.

“Forgive me, O archangel,” Bahorel said, his voice muffled by the hand he still had over his mouth. “I was trying to provoke you and Joly believes that won’t be good for your health, and because I respect the little doctor, I will cease. I was only doing it so that I might see you do again what you did in the square this afternoon.”

Enjolras opened his mouth to beseech the man to just tell him already, damn it all, but Bossuet’s warm hand was suddenly over his face, intervening. Bahorel whined, a noise better suited for an impetuous child rather than a very large grown man, complaining that “he was just about to do it again, Lesgle, damn!”

“He’s been going on and on about some speech you must have given in the square,” Bossuet was saying, finally releasing his friend. He slipped into his orator’s voice, the one he used for telling stories.

“You see, there was an altercation of sorts in the square, in which you were unfortunately involved. We cannot discern what it was about, nor can you remember, so it may be lost to the ages. The best the three of us could piece together while allowing you to rest was that someone must have said something to incense you,” (here Bossuet paused to wink at Joly), “Into taking action in your usual fashion. Your fiery speechmaking managed to summon a tremendous crowd.”

“When I found him,” Bahorel said, “He was standing on top of an overturned crate and there were easily seventy, eighty people standing around, completely spellbound. Even I, who have remained untamed by any great influence for the majority of my life, could not help but drift in closer. The trouble I could cause with a voice such as that…”

“You’re charismatic enough, Bahorel,” Bossuet cut in, shaking his head with an amused grin, “The last thing you need is our dear friend’s way with words. The world would not be able to handle it.”

“Screw the world,” Bahorel replied, grinning back with affection. Amiably, he patted Enjolras’s leg with surprising gentleness. “The point I’m making is, you’ve got one hell of a talent.”

Enjolras nodded curtly, allowing himself to feel some pride for his ability. Bossuet continued the recount.

“As you are doubtlessly well aware, Enjolras, your eloquence shines through best when you are ferocious. Your ferocity, as it turns out, is completely contagious. If Joly did not know you, and if we did not adore you as our comrade at arms, he would suggest we take hygienic precautions against you. Your righteous plague took those citizens over. They, in turn, took over an omnibus.”

A shock of electricity ran down Enjolras’s spine, and the revolutionary sat bolt upright. “Then you were not joking with me? I really did cause a riot?”

“And kept on speaking through the whole thing,” Bahorel added, shaking his head in sincere wonderment, “In all of my years, pulling up paving stones and busting windows, I have never seen anything quite like it. And I have seen damned near everything, understand.”

Enjolras suppressed another slight chill, because Bahorel’s piercing eyes were looking through him again.

“Anyway,” the giant was continuing, “I’ve never been known to turn down a riot, and it so happened that some of the things you were saying I agreed with, so I plunged right in and started shoving. It’s a good thing that omnibus was empty, save for the driver, who got away. The horses someone cut loose. I had half a mind to steal one and ride it into the nearest shop just to see the effect it would have on the riot, but I knew the men who worked there and didn’t want to lose their trust.”

“And at what point did the gendarmes arrive?” Enjolras asked, leaning forward to listen. The story carried a vague familiarity, as though he had heard it before. It was hard to believe he had lived through it himself.

“Right as we had the omnibus upside down, in fact,” Bahorel mused, rubbing his chin as he pictured the scene in the air just above his head. “They recognized you as chief troublemaker, seeing as you were still standing on that crate shouting things at civilians. I’d be jealous that you stole my customary title, but I suppose you’ve earned it. They came at you in a swarm and one of them crowned you with a baton. You fought back very courageously. You were wild.”

Enjolras looked down at his arm, ponderous. A gang of gendarmes had attacked him with batons. That explained the headache, and that was how his arm had become broken. What in the world had inspired him to cause all this trouble?

“I beat a couple of those bastards off of you,” Bahorel was continuing, casually describing the fight as though commenting on the color of the walls, “You hadn’t blacked out, but you were all busted up. Didn’t know a damned thing about you, didn’t even know your name, but I figured I had to bring you somewhere safe. Joly’s just about the only doctor I can stand to be around, so I hauled you here as quick as I could. I planned on heading back to the riot, but ended up staying here while Joly drugged and treated you because, damn coincidence, these two knuckleheads happened to know you.”

Here he turned to shake a finger at Bossuet, who mockingly ducked his head in false embarrassment as the older man scolded him.

“Turns out, you’re the leader of the little group they’ve been trying to convince me to join. Les Amis de l’ABC? Cute name. I was going to allow my old apprentice here to drag me along for the next meeting just for the hell of it, but here we are instead.”

He slapped Bossuet on the shoulder and the two of them laughed, even though Enjolras didn’t find any of this terribly funny.

When the laughter died down, Enjolras solemnly put his good hand forward, reaching out to shake Bahorel’s hand. The other’s massive hand closed over his slender one, and his handshake was, of course, bone-crushing.

“Thank you,” the revolutionary said, resisting the urge to wince at the powerful handshake, “You’ve saved my life, and I’m in your debt.”

Bahorel waved him off, leaning back dangerously on the back two legs of his chair as though propelled away from something unpleasant.

“You don’t owe me anything, comrade. I don’t believe in debt. I don’t believe in chains.”

Enjolras allowed a small smile to bloom on his face. This man was loud and boisterous and clearly, completely wild, but Enjolras liked him. 

Joly reached across the bed and poked Bahorel, which made him teeter back onto all four legs of his chair. “You should introduce yourself, now that you two are going to be friends.”

Bossuet laughed suddenly, elbowing Enjolras’s shoulder. “I bet you can’t guess what his name is.”

A beat passed, then the injured man shook his head.

“No. No, there is no possible way. I don’t believe you. You’re joking with me.”

“It’s true,” Bahorel smirked, putting out his hand again, “I’m Jean Guillaume Bahorel. Pleasure to meet you, Jean Alexandre Enjolras.”

“Another Jean,” Bossuet beamed as the two men shook hands again, “Pity we all go by our surnames, otherwise we wouldn’t have to remember any names at all. Everyone is Jean.”

“Excuse you,” Bahorel coughed, acting offended, “But I am an individual, thank you very much.”

“We know you are,” Joly added with a friendly smile, “Who could forget you, with all your daringly bright waistcoats?”

Enjolras was suddenly reminded of the equally daring color of the room. He turned to Joly and expressed his confusion. Joly seemed only too happy to explain.

“Well, you see, this room was green before. But I was reading about a certain green paint that contains arsenic, and I have felt faint sometimes in this room, so of course I had to assume the worse.”

“I tried to tell him that our green paint was much older than the arsenic paint he read about, but even after we tested the walls for poison, the color made him nervous,” Bossuet finished, reaching across to affectionately muss his roommate’s hair. “Bahorel happened to have some paint on hand, so we painted over the green paint to put our doctor at ease.”

“I had been planning to paint the bank near my house with violent colors,” Bahorel explained, again leaning back in his chair to muse to himself, “Just to see the effect it would have. Done right, an act like that can bring down a whole government, in time.”

Yes, he was completely wild, but Enjolras liked him.


	6. Fall of Angels, Rise of Man

Fall, 1824

Combeferre had no habits that disturbed Enjolras. The two of them operated in perfect harmony on nearly all fronts. Even their arguments were perfectly matched and synchronized to end with neither party offended for long. To say their friendship was perfect would be an understatement.

This being said, maybe there was one thing or two that annoyed Enjolras.

It was the moths. Enjolras did not like moths, nor would he ever. Even as tempting as the “like a moth to a flame” simile was, he refrained from using it in any of his writings, (no one cared, of course, the articles were selling fine and people would read them with moth similes or not.)

Combeferre, on the other hand, loved them. He studied them and was learning to draw them and, in his usual fashion, had obtained every possible book on the subject. Sure, other topics caught his fancy, (everything caught Combeferre’s fancy), but the one remaining constant was his fascination with moths.

“I wouldn’t mind so much,” Enjolras protested one evening as the pair began suiting up for a night walk in the public gardens, “Only you insist that I come with you to collect samples, live samples, and I just don’t see why they have to be live ones, Combeferre.”

“You’re only going to get over your fear if we expose you,” Combeferre insisted, tying up his boots, “If we just keep introducing you to the moths your aversion will naturally start to go away.”

“I’m not afraid, I just don’t like them,” Enjolras insisted right back, though he still wouldn’t come near the desk where Combeferre had his moth jars, “And I don’t much like being your test subject for these theories either.”

“And I don’t much like you being locked up in this room all hours of the day and night writing away without end,” the medical student snapped. He shook his head at his loss of temper, took a calming breath, and held his hands out in treaty with his friend.

“Look, Enjolras, you only ever leave for ABC meetings and protests. You haven’t even been to your classes in a month. You hardly sleep, and when you do it’s at your desk with your pen still in your hand. I worry for you.”

“And what am I supposed to do, Combeferre?” the revolutionary shot back, raising his hands in frustration, “The state of this country drives me mad. I cannot sit easy when I can be working. You will not let me fight, our friends will not let me fight, so I must write, understand? I cannot do anything else! I cannot!”

This was their first real fight, their first honest to God fight. Enjolras could feel himself turning red in the face, from anger and from shame. Combeferre was looking at him with pity, no, concern. He was scared. Enjolras was scaring him.

Yet Combeferre’s eyes turned hard behind his glasses, and when he spoke, he was bitter.

“And how can you bear to write a single word when you have ceased to walk amongst the people you claim to be fighting for?”

It was a stone hurled with the intention of curing, but it was still a stone and it still hurt. The two roommates finished preparing for the walk in silence. Combeferre did not ask Enjolras to carry the jars.

When they reached the gardens, Combeferre set off on his own. Enjolras moved to follow, but his friend waved him off, muttering something about the both of them needing a moment alone for the sake of their health.

So he was by himself.

It was late, and the gardens were mostly empty. Mostly, except for the usual crowd of homeless. The gendarmes did try to drive them out before closing time at night, but they always missed a few. Those who were currently in the park would be preparing for the nightly game of hide and seek before the gates were closed.

The night was warm, as some autumn nights can be, but not very warm. Enjolras drew his coat closer against his throat to keep out the vague chill, the sort of chill that one wouldn’t notice until it had already crept under one’s coat.

He considered just going back to the rooms, but that would only anger Combeferre. There was no point in making him any more upset, and he was probably right, though Enjolras would hesitate to admit it. A quiet walk in the night air before going to bed for the night, (or going to desk for the night), would do him well. A moment amongst the huddled masses of the park’s homeless community would do him even better.

So he strolled, not with his eyes to the stars that poked out in the pale indigo of the evening sky, but with his eyes to the paths and to the bushes and benches, where every now and again a human form could be made out, tucked away in misery for the night, to wait for the next miserable day to rise again.

Enjolras had no pen or paper, but he was still writing. In his head, there was a constant dull roar, a perpetual monologue, running the gambit of societal plagues and their cures. He could not stop it any more than he could control it. There was no way to silence it.

It was in this state, drifting in the ever flowing flood of words that washed over and through him, that Enjolras spied the figure balanced on the wall overlooking the Seine.  
The gardens were situated near the bank of the river, and a wall just thick enough to walk on ran along the sidewalk at chest height, keeping men and carriages alike from tumbling in. This night, however, a figure was silhouetted against the night sky, arms spread carefully in balance, feet placed delicately on the top of the wall.

As he moved closer, he could make out the features of a young man, youthful, wearing an odd assortment of clothes. Even though his own fashion sense was often criticized by his friends, (Courfeyrac was frustrated with him constantly), he could tell that this young man had absolutely no idea how to dress. Between the pantaloons straight off the stage of the opera to the battered feathers in his hatband, it was obvious that this figure was one of the park’s homeless citizens, his wardrobe scavenged from the scrap heap. Perhaps he was insane, which would explain why he was balancing on a wall over the river.

Indeed, as Enjolras moved closer still, he could hear the young man speaking to himself. He watched as the figure turned and walked back and forth along the wall, speaking with his hands and making grand, melodramatic gestures. He could not understand the language, but the cadence of the words suggested poetry.

Maybe the poor man was possessed.

He considered coming nearer still, curiosity piqued by this stranger. As he watched, however, the figure’s strange dancing ceased. Still muttering in that mysterious tongue, (not Latin, not French, not Greek!), he spread his arms wide, balancing on his toes, and at that moment the wind blew riverwards ever so slightly…

The chill that ran through Enjolras had nothing to do with the weather. With a mighty shout, he burst from his place behind a nearby tree and leapt to sweep the figure from the wall, bowling him to the ground. He tumbled to follow, determined that this man would not be allowed to jump into the Seine.

“Unhand me, unhand me, you fiend!” the figure was shouting, his voice surprisingly robust for his youthful features. He was also putting up a valiant struggle, which Enjolras did not expect, given the man’s willowy frame.

“I will not unhand you!” he replied, fighting to keep his opponent pinned, “What business have you, committing such an act as that!”

“I do as I please, that’s what business I have!” the supposed suicide spat, and sent Enjolras reeling with a surprising punch. “And now you’ve pissed me off, right as things were going so well!”

Enjolras sat up, nursing his jaw, checking for lost teeth. The other man was on his knees, face red and breathing heavy, glaring at him with as much power as he could muster. This, too, was shockingly intimidating.

“Things were not going well, citizen,” Enjolras almost sputtered, his jaw aching him, “You were about to throw yourself away. Was I to just stand by and allow that?”

“I wasn’t actually going to jump! By God, couldn’t you have just let me be? I nearly had it. I very nearly had it,” the stranger growled, shaking a fist at the revolutionary.

“What did you nearly have?” Enjolras asked, climbing to his feet.

“My poem, you brute, my poem,” the other hissed, leaping to his own feet, “Everything was perfect, the stars and the river and all, and now the moment is lost and you’ve ruined it. And here I might as well have learned Hebrew for nothing.”

The poet was trembling with rage, hands curled into fists. He seemed on the verge of tears. The two stood for a moment, staring each other down. Without warning, the artist suddenly pounced upon Enjolras’s hand and began dragging him off into the gardens, charging forwards with violent determination.

Enjolras’s initial reaction was to pull back, alarmed by the strangeness of this series of events. But he did have a pistol on him, and he assumed that he could take this vagrant wordsmith in a fight if they came to blows again, so after a moment he allowed himself to be tugged along.

“If you’re so angry, why are you taking me with you?” he asked, the small figure in front of him not so much leading him as simply charging in front of him.

“If you’re going to jump around ruining people’s perfectly good poetic reveries on the walls of bridges, then you’re going to have to pay me back. No arguments,” the poet almost snarled, and Enjolras was actually amazed at the ferocity of this little stranger.

The two arrived under the trees and the stranger flung himself down, reclining against the tree. Enjolras assumed he was meant to sit as well and joined him.

“Alright,” the poet sighed, rubbing the heel of his hand against an eye, “You’ve ruined my night, but this is still a decent chance encounter and I can still work with that. I don’t want to admit it because I’m cross with you, but you seem interesting enough. Start talking.”

“Talking? About what? What exactly is going on?” Enjolras asked.

“Anything!” the other nearly exploded, waving his hands about. He suddenly closed his eyes and took a great breath, held it, and exhaled. When he spoke again, the edges were gone from his voice, and he sounded much softer than before.

“Look, stranger,” he continued, calmer than before but not necessarily any less angry, “Every person on this earth has things they want to say. Everyone is carrying these words around, waiting to be spoken. We all have fears and worries and things we love more than anything, but we’re all too scared to say any of it. We’re all suffering from something and we’re too scared to let anyone know. It’s ugly and terrible.”

Enjolras was quieted by the poet’s words. He ran his fingers through the grass, listening.

“But you know what comes from telling people about your suffering?” the stranger went on, gazing up at the stars, “Beauty. All the writings and artwork of the world exist because someone was in pain or in love. Isn’t that the most wonderful thing?”

“Why, then, am I sitting under this tree with you?” Enjolras asked, moved but cautious. This poet, whoever or whatever he was, was a complete mystery.

“You’re sitting here,” the artist responded, turning back to the revolutionary with eyes twinkling in the dim light, “Because I want you to tell me what makes you suffer.”

The intensity of the moment must have hit the poet rather suddenly, because he suddenly blushed vividly and cast his eyes down, threading his fingers through the grass.

“I mean, if you don’t mind, though I really would like to hear about it,” he mumbled softly, completely unlike the wild creature that had nearly broken Enjolras’s jaw only minutes earlier, “Though I guess if you were really uninterested you would have left already.”

He had a point. Enjolras was perfectly capable of leaving. And yet he lingered there under the tree, trying to understand the puzzle of a man who sat next to him with a feathered hat in his lap and stray leaves tangled in his hair.

“I’m… not very interesting,” he began carefully, self-conscious in a way he had not been for a long while. Those long periods of isolation were going to rob him of his few social skills, and likely his charisma as well, were he not more careful.

“I don’t mind,” the poet replied gently, looking over at him with kind eyes, “Everyone is interesting somehow.”

Enjolras could unleash one hell of a speech on a crowd of citizens, but baring his personal thoughts or emotions on anything but subjects to do with the revolution had long since become unfamiliar to him. That being said, almost against his will, the words came pouring out.

Under that tree, Enjolras told the poet everything he could think of. He talked at length, (and talked, not lectured), about the suffering he saw every day in the streets and how it pained him that nothing was being done to end it. He spoke of his desperation, his endless writings, (“Tormented by the Muses,” the poet murmured in sympathy, patting his shoulder, “I know the feeling.”) He spoke, too, of his fight with Combeferre and how he had ended up in the gardens that night, and when he had finished he felt much lighter than before, and yet somehow fuller.

“You’re a fantastic subject, you know,” the poet said shyly, glancing at the revolutionary sideways, “I have a good idea for a poem about you. It’ll be in Latin, about an angel that forgot he used to be human.”

“That doesn’t sound like me,” Enjolras replied, “But it does sound like an interesting poem.”

“Oh, it does sound like you, though,” the stranger insisted, sitting up on his knees and impulsively grabbing the blond by his shoulders, “My friend, you have been so lost in your work that you have forgotten the purpose of it. All belief, no practice, far away from the world for so long.”

“An angel that forgot he was human,” Enjolras whispered, repeating the poet’s words. He gave a sigh, dropping his gaze back to the grass.

“It’s just like my friend told me. I have been writing all these words, but I’ve put myself away from the people I’m meant to be defending. My hunger for action has left me isolated and inactive instead.”

“But now you know,” the stranger told him, and smiled encouragingly.

It was getting terribly late. The only sound was the wind, rustling the trees like a great green ocean. The moon was almost full, floating overhead.

Doubtlessly, Combeferre would be looking for him, worried sick. Enjolras felt as though he had just woken from some long and surreal dream, the waking world tinted by the colors of the sleeping one. Distractedly, he thought that he would brave carrying the moth jars back home.

“Thank you,” he suddenly said, breaking the stillness of the moment, reaching out for the poet’s hand, “Thank you for everything.”

The sudden action startled the stranger, who ducked his head in embarrassment as he shook Enjolras’s hand.

“I didn’t do much. I only listened. Just take care, ok, Monsieur…?”

“Enjolras,” he replied, “Jean Alexandre Enjolras.”

It was like a bolt of lightning hit the poet, who sat upright with a start. Enjolras almost saw the other’s mind racing, making connections, marveling at something he could not see.

“Enjolras?” the artist whispered, something like awe washing over his face. The awe gave way to a sudden smile, like the sun coming out. Enjolras was pulled to his feet in a flash and spun around, the poet’s laughter strong and joyous as they whirled about.

“Coincidence! Sweet, beautiful, stunning coincidence! I could kiss you, oh Fate!”

“What in the world are you going on about?” Enjolras cried over the laughter, stumbling to catch his balance in the unexpected whirlwind.

“You! I am going on about you!” the stranger cried back, ceasing the dance to grasp both of Enjolras’s hands, “I am going on about you and this fine, fine coincidence! Don’t you see? I know you, dear Enjolras, I know you!”

“Impossible!” Enjolras replied, leaning in to examine the features of his companion’s face, “We’ve met only just this night. Are you not a vagrant of the parks? Do you know me through my writings?”

“I am no vagrant!” the poet shouted back, leaping away from him in order to spin and dash about on his own, “But I know more than your writings! Enjolras, dear friend Enjolras! I am the closest companion of your own Bahorel!”

Now Enjolras was thunderstruck. “You know Bahorel?”

“Not only know him, but the two of us are, as the English say, ‘in cahoots,’ partners in crime! Has he never mentioned his beloved poet Jean Leon Prouvaire?”

“Jehan?” Enjolras asked, incredulous. Bahorel spoke often and kindly about his eccentric poet friend, whom none of Les Amis had met. But the name Jehan, (the poet’s self-given nickname), was well known in their circle.

“The one and only!” Prouvaire crowed proudly, sweeping Enjolras into an embrace in his excitement. They spun once more before the poet stepped back, shy again, rocking on the balls of his feet with a satisfied smile on his face. Sweetly, he asked, “The giant has spoken kindly of me, I hope?”

“Nothing but good words, Jehan,” Enjolras replied, his own smile starting to bloom, “We were going to ask him to convince you to join us, you know.”

“I know,” Prouvaire said, shrugging with a happy sigh, “And I planned on it. With so many Jeans, it has to be meant to be.”

The two gentleman stood awkwardly for a moment, before finally Prouvaire bent and swept his hat off the ground where it lay, settling it at a jaunty angle on his head.

“I expect this means we’re friends now, Enjolras,” he said, cocking his head to see around the wide brim and silly angle of his hat. The pose made him look impish, and Enjolras was forced to giggle for what was only the second time in his life. The two of them laughed softly as they began to walk towards the entrance to the gardens, where the gates were going to close in a few moments. They parted ways with a final handshake, Prouvaire promising to come to the next ABC meeting.

Combeferre was waiting, sure enough, his moth jars in their box by his feet. He was gazing about nervously, checking his pocket watch again and again. At the sight of Enjolras heading towards him, he almost started to be angry. Instead, upon seeing the relaxed smile on his friend’s face, he only asked, “Did you enjoy your walk?”

“I did,” Enjolras replied, stooping to pick up the moth jars. He still didn’t like the little creatures but suppressed his aversion and kept his eyes on Combeferre instead.

“The night air definitely did you well,” the medical student replied, looking over his blond friend with a critical eye, “Surprisingly well, actually.”

“Combeferre, listen,” Enjolras cut in, shifting his grip on the jars, “I’m sorry for worrying you. I’m going to try and be better, I promise.”

Combeferre softened, then smiled back at his friend.

“I don’t know what happened in that garden, and I don’t want to know. I’m just happy you’re feeling better. Let’s go home, alright?”

The stars lit the way.


	7. The Table in the Corner

1825

The little room in the back of the Musain had been transformed into their second home.

Enjolras had obtained a flag and several maps to hang on the walls. Combeferre had supplied the books, making up a small but vast library from which all their friends borrowed. Courfeyrac was really the homemaker, bringing in curtains and rugs and extra chairs, making the little room feel less public, more like it was truly theirs. 

Even Prouvaire, who had known them the shortest amount of time, contributed to making the back room into their back room. He brought in plants by the dozen, all of which inevitably died at some point. Nevertheless, they brightened the room.

Feuilly, the talented craftsman that he was, had painted a banner in fine calligraphy with their names and the name of their society to hang above the mantle.

Bossuet, Joly, and Bahorel, meanwhile, filled the room with their gaiety. 

When all of them were together in the room at the Musain, anything seemed possible. The raucous, friendly sound of all his friends talking at once made Enjolras glow with pride. Every meeting left him empowered, eager, and over all, happy.

In fewer words, it was impossible for anyone to be as content as Enjolras was with the current situation. He had his friends and his revolutionary society, and he had his writings. He had everything.

Not everyone was so lucky.

“You have to come to at least one meeting, Grantaire, please!” Joly plead, half drunk. He leaned across the table where he was playing dominoes with Bossuet and their friend, trying to reach a bottle of wine which Bossuet helpfully passed to him.

“I absolutely refuse to even consider associating myself with you bunch of blind idealists!” the drunken artist insisted, easily three times as intoxicated at his medical friend, “I love my cynicism and I will defend it to the death. I chose to cling to it as some men cling to their lives, or their lovers, or their vices. The vice you two share is that you bother to still believe in something at all, and in all our years of friendship I have failed to pry you from it. So!”

Here he paused to place a domino and take a long drink from his bottle before continuing.

“You cannot convince me otherwise. I will stay here and love my skepticism unabashedly. I have my friends and my bottle, and I won’t have my miserable peace interrupted by some group of empty headed diehard revolutionaries chattering away about their precious Republics and citizens and such refuse.”

“Watch who you insult, Grand R,” Bossuet chimed in, halfway between Joly and Grantaire in his drunkenness, “We belong to that group of empty headed diehard revolutionaries.”

This provoked a grumble from the drunkard, nothing more.

“Grantaire, the wine at the Musain is quite good, in any case,” Joly went on, “And never once have I gotten sick after eating the oysters there, not a single time.”

“You have never gotten sick on any oysters, Jolllly,” Bossuet laughed, using the nickname Prouvaire had bestowed upon his friend, (the extra “wings” were to help him fly.)

“I have certainly gotten sick on oysters before,” Joly insisted, taking a drink from Bossuet’s bottle, “You just didn’t believe me because I didn’t throw up. But I felt awful, that one time, you remember. I nearly died.”

“You were drunk,” Bossuet countered, stealing his bottle back, “You silly goose.”

“Don’t be fowl.”

“Don’t be a chicken.”

“Don’t start with the bird puns,” Grantaire cut in, rubbing his eyes tiredly, “Always with the bird puns. Find a different topic.”

“Leaf us alone, Grantaire,” Bossuet started, then started giggling violently. A leg detached from his chair, making him stumble out of his seat in bewilderment. He stared down at the suddenly broken chair in disbelief. Turning to Joly, he deadpanned, “Wood you look at that.”

Joly, unable to contain himself, knocked half the dominos off the table in his hilarity.

Grantaire sat back, watching his friends try to put themselves together after their laughing fit. He took another long drink, finished the bottle, and reached for another. Quietly he mused on their friendship, how greatly he treasured the nights they were all together.

Which was, actually, nearly every night, save for the nights Joly and Bossuet had to go to the Musain.

They had been spending so much time there lately. More and more, there were nights that he drank alone. His afternoons were growing into long, friendless deserts of days. He tried to pass the time boxing and fencing, but he was not friends with any of the gentlemen he practiced with. No, he didn’t have too many friends at all. And now his two best, (only?), friends had somewhere else to go, other people to be with.

Well, damn. That didn’t feel good at all.

“Alright,” Grantaire muttered to himself, “I’ll go in there with both hands wrapped nice and tight around my beliefs: no beliefs. I’m an intelligent man, and I can’t be influenced unless I want. What’s the danger? I’ll be with my friends, and screw anyone else.”

“Alright,” he spoke up louder, interrupting Joly and Bossuet, who were busy trying to fix the chair and failing miserably thanks to the wine.

“Alright what?” Joly asked, his head popping up over the edge of the table.

“Alright, I’ll come to the Musain with you some night,” Grantaire sighed, running a hand through his unwashed hair, “Just once, though, alright? I don’t like making habits.”

“Hooray!” Joly exclaimed, leaping up to stumble around the table and give Grantaire a hug, “You’ll love it there, I promise!”

“It’s true, Grand R,” Bossuet chimed in, grinning widely at the drunkard, “Besides, it’ll be good for you to… branch out.”

Joly dissolved into giggles, and even Grantaire couldn’t sustain his sour mood any longer.

That sour mood came back full swing when the night to go to the Musain came around, a dark night with few stars and no moon. Grantaire found himself trying to come up with excuses, (he was sick, he was busy, he finally got a job, finally found a mistress), as to why he couldn’t go, but as soon as he saw his friends’ smiling faces, he was unable to voice any excuse. He allowed himself to be dragged along.

The room was homey, he’d give them that. The maps and the flag were all a bit silly, though, and he scoffed openly at that as he chose a seat in the far corner. With luck, the actual business part of the meeting would be over quickly and he could return to being with his friends as usual without too much questioning or complaining.

Strange gentlemen were filing in, taking seats and chatting with such easy familiarity that Grantaire almost felt jealous. Joly and Bossuet knew all these people, knew them well, very well might have loved them as much as they loved him. What an unusual group they all were! At his request, his friends had left him to his own devices in the corner. If he wanted to befriend any others, he would do so on his own.

Still, the selection was difficult. The fellow with the glasses seemed too intelligent, the curly haired dandy too social. He recognized Bahorel as Bossuet’s friend, but was reluctant to go over and speak with him because of the raggedy Romantic that kept to his side. The only other gentleman there was a working man, buried in a book in the opposite corner. So much for branching out.

Bossuet must have gotten frustrated with Grantaire’s isolation, and dragged Bahorel and the Romantic over to be introduced. Grantaire resisted at first but found himself pleasantly surprised by the quality of their company, (this Prouvaire fellow was an honest to God character), and soon was deep in conversation with the three other men. When the wine arrived from the kitchen, it took him a whole five minutes to even notice that the drink was there.

He found himself wondering when the business portion of the meeting would begin. Perhaps this was not such a serious society as his friends had implied. He had been there for nearly an hour and still all that had been done was a good bit of conversation and a healthy dose of debate. Grantaire allowed himself to relax, get comfortable, settle in. Despite himself, he liked it here.

A new gentleman entered the room, some ridiculous figure in red with the most unnaturally golden hair he had ever seen. Another strange gentleman for the menagerie! Grantaire watched this creature stride from the doorway directly to the bespectacled man, the two smiling and greeting each other like old friends. Whoever this man was, he seemed entirely at home here.

Bossuet caught Grantaire’s eye and nudged him teasingly.

“That would be our dear chief, Enjolras. We’re about to begin.”

So there would be some dreadful business about this meeting. Grantaire felt his heart sink. And here things had been going so well!

The man in red, (Enjolras, Bossuet had called him), took some papers from Combeferre and climbed onto an empty table.

“You have to be kidding me,” Grantaire mumbled.

He didn’t listen at first. He didn’t care about this golden man or anything he had to say. If anything, he was bitter about this revolution nonsense distracting his friends from, well, being his friends. It was selfish but it was there; he could not stop feeling it any more than he could stop drinking.

But something was happening in the room. A hush settled over the little crowd, even over the most boisterous members. When Enjolras spoke, the world leaned in to listen. Everything got still, as though hanging over the edge of something great. Grantaire found himself hanging in that balance as well. Despite himself, he was listening.

Years later, he would struggle to remember what Enjolras had been saying. What had that strange, glorious man said to change him so? Ultimately, it did not matter. What mattered was this: for a brief, brief moment, Grantaire believed in something.

Just a passing thought! A tiny, soft footed little thought, padding through his head, causally remarking, “If anyone can bring down the State, it’s this man.”

What a feeling that was! To have a single whole belief, after all his years of careful cynicism!

He gazed in awe at the man standing on the table, moving on from his speech to give assignments to his comrades for the following week. The candlelight practically made a halo around him. He almost glowed, standing before them on that table.

For a brief moment, Enjolras’s piercing blue eyes fell upon the drunkard. Despite having finished an entire bottle of wine by now, Grantaire could not help but feel sobered.

Business was over, for now. Enjolras climbed off the table, taking his bespectacled friend’s hand gratefully as he stepped down. Grantaire watched, forgotten in the corner, as this angelic leader made his rounds, greeting his friends, talking briefly with them all, oblivious to the miracle he had just worked.

And suddenly he was there, beside him, shaking his hand and introducing himself, oh God.

“Joly mentioned that he was bringing a friend tonight,” Enjolras said, smiling invitingly at the drunken artist, “He also mentioned that you were not a member of our cause. At his recommendation, I’ve been looking forward to debating with you all evening.”

“You have, have you?” Grantaire remarked, glaring sidelong at his friend. Joly only winked at him and returned to talking with the others.

“I have,” Enjolras said, holding out his hand to shake, “Jean Alexandre Enjolras. And you are?”

Grantaire hesitated, then reached out to clasp the other’s palm with reluctance. “Jean Rene Grantaire.”

The intensity of their following debate would erase the pleasantness of their first encounter completely. No two men could be more opposite than Enjolras and Grantaire. The former saw in the latter a complete and unfortunate waste of a human being, (was this really the brilliant artist and fighter his friends so kindly spoke about?), and the latter saw in the former a laughable caricature of the revolution, a walking political cartoon, (and yet, he did not leave the meeting!)

Often did Enjolras grow wild in debate, but never was he so enraged. The drunkard had a tongue, and a mind to match, and he was evenly matched against him. The damned bastard believed in nothing, which was completely infuriating. And all the while, he was drinking, drinking, letting his own words slur and his arguments fall apart until he became intolerably verbose, laughing at Enjolras and his ideals as though they were a joke.

Enjolras walked away from their first debate confused and, despite himself, angry. Who was this drunken cynic who somehow nested himself into their gathering, this wasted brilliance drowning in wine over in the corner? He was clearly an intelligent man, despite his intense and stubborn skepticism.

And yet, Enjolras could not deny, he seemed to belong here. Indeed, this Grantaire looked as though he had occupied that corner his entire life. Watching him now, sullenly downing his wine, Enjolras saw a spark of potential in him. He was a cynic but he was still a bright man, underneath that liquor. They would take pity on him, Les Amis would. Maybe it would benefit them to keep a nonbeliever around.

He’d regret it soon. The drunker Grantaire got, the more outspoken, and Grantaire was in the habit of getting incredibly drunk. Soon enough, every ABC meeting would be sprinkled with the long winded, intoxicated rants of Grand R, almost always directed at Enjolras alone. Grantaire would make a target out of him and hurl his frustrations at him with great, beastly fists.

But for now, things were quiet. Enjolras relayed some of his thoughts concerning the drunkard to Combeferre, who applauded his mercy in allowing the man to stay even though he had angered him. Soon enough Courfeyrac was hanging off his arm, insisting that they discuss the fallout of their latest publication, and Enjolras paid no more mind to the man in the far corner.

For Grantaire, it was different. That little thought, that unwanted belief, did not go away. Despite himself, Grantaire wanted to be near to this believer, this living belief of a man named Enjolras. He hated the things that man said, but did not want to cease listening. He did not want to lash out and be obnoxious, yet he could not help but instinctively strike out at this unfamiliar feeling. He did not want to be there, he did not want to leave. 

He did not want to come back to the Musain, and yet he did.


	8. Those Were the Days

June 3rd, 1832

It was likely the last time they would all be together in such good humor.

The world was changing so quickly, though Enjoleas didn’t mind. The action he had been longing for had arrived. Their moment of truth would come in a matter of days. It was time.

General Lamarque’s death weighed heavily on them all, but the growing excitement for the day of the great man’s funeral overshadowed any real sadness. The plans had been lain, back up plans had been organized, everyone was ready to spring and eager to act. By this time next year, the Republic would be on its way to fruition.

For now, though, Les Amis de l’ABC were enjoying what was going to be their last real meeting before the funeral on the fifth. The fourth would be filled with too many nerves, too much to be done, for a comfortable last meeting. For now, it was a quiet moment, and they were together.

Enjolras reclined in his chair, catching Combeferre’s eye. The medical student smiled from across the room, excusing himself from Bahorel’s company in order to sit with his closest friend. The two companions sat next to each other for a long while, watching the candlelight and the firelight flicker off the faces of their friends.

“Nervous?” Combeferre asked, peering over at his golden haired friend. Enjolras only laughed softly in reply, shaking his head.

“No, not really nervous. The people are on our side. We’ve come so far and worked so hard for this day, and we’ll see our triumph. I can feel it.”

Combeferre laughed this time. “And we’ll see our names written in the history books, I suppose?”

“Not if I can help it. Our friends can have whatever fame they want. I’ll be happy with the Republic.”

The two were quiet once more, watching their friends. So much time had passed, and they had been through so much, and yet here they were, together.

Joly and Bossuet were sitting by each other, no surprise there. But Bossuet was half listening to one of Grantaire’s rants, half busy placing his next domino. Joly was speaking seriously with Bahorel and Courfeyrac, likely seeking advice on his relationship again. Prouvaire, meanwhile, was draped over the back of Feuilly’s chair, allowing the fanmaker to coach him in some basic Polish vocabulary.

Watching them, content in the warm glow of the fire, Enjolras was flooded with dozens of little memories, tiny flashes of his life. The little details whirled by, sticking to him like errant sparks, burning him up with their light and their heat.

There was Combeferre, awkward in his long limbs and thick glasses but immensely kind and understanding in his heart, offering that handkerchief on their first day of school together. Combeferre, helping him straighten his cravat on his first day of law school, lecturing him on pacifist philosophy. Combeferre, who always had clean hands, bandaging his physical wounds and banishing his invisible ones. Curious Combeferre, knocking on walls and picking flowers, studious Combeferre, watching his moths flutter from their jars, good and honest Combeferre, who so loved mankind!

And there was Courfeyrac, graceful as a cat, sly as a fox! That dashing and clever fellow who stood between him and a gun before they had even exchanged names! Courfeyrac, leading him by the hand with a smile, Courfeyrac, embracing him with unabashed cheer. That dear friend with a smile like the sun, always chasing his hat, always driving the shadows away! Courfeyrac, full of life, full of love!

And Feuilly, dear Feuilly, shyly stepping out of his workshop to join his gentleman friends, modestly tugging at his worker’s cap as though he did not know he was the greatest gentleman of them all. Feuilly, fresh from a riot, hands and clothes stained in paint and blood and honor, so much honor. Feuilly, with his careful hands, who read so avidly and spoke so earnestly! That valiant artisan, that genuine hero!

Another look showed Bossuet and Joly, ever side by side, crashing through that doorway pursued by bad luck and good humor. There was Bossuet, telling a long story of his misadventures, sarcastic but sincere. There was Joly, lighting incense to clear the bad air, eccentric, wonderful. The two of them, ever tumbling, ever laughing, joyous and bright.

A flash of light, and there was Bahorel! Blinding, deafening, earth shaking giant of Bahorel, dragging him away from the gendarmes and studying him with intense eyes, all flashing colors and wildness! A passing shadow, and there was Jehan, balanced on tiptoe above the water, tumbling through the stars, speaking in tongues, possessed, yes, by the Muses alone! The two of them, so unusual and so wise, passing their days in violent paint and the words of suffering, so lived Bahorel and Prouvaire!

Even Grantaire, in that moment, was washed in a light of compassion for the man he could have been, the man he still would have a chance at becoming if he would only allow himself to believe it was possible. Yes, Enjolras despised Grantaire the man, but Grantaire the idea! Yes, even he was loved, in that moment.

And the memories of them all being together! 

Combeferre and Feuilly pouring over books together even as the former held fiery debate with Bahorel and Courfeyrac, even as the latter fell asleep in the safety of their back room. 

Courfeyrac and Bossuet holding battles of wits only to be shown up by Grantaire, who would suffer defeat at the hands of Jehan.

Bahorel hiding from suspicious gendarmes, off handedly handing out life-saving advice to all who asked. 

Feuilly sharing artwork with Grantaire, Jehan sharing poems with them all, Courfeyrac telling a joke, Bossuet making a pun. 

Joly and Combeferre discussing the latest theories, Combeferre and Jehan the latest philosophies, Jehan and Grantaire the newest operas.

Borrowing books, borrowing coats, borrowing hats and gloves and money and companionship and lodging space. Keeping each other warm, keeping each other safe, in good health, in good spirits. Getting each other into and out of trouble. Shaking hands, holding hands, planning and dreaming and, often enough, fighting.

“It’s so strange,” Enjolras murmured, catching Combeferre’s attention. Where the first had been in reverie, the second had begun to fall asleep in the warmth of the back room.

“Everything is strange, but what are you referring to?” he asked sleepily, removing his glasses to rub at his eyes.

“The connections between us all,” he replied, but didn’t explain further. Combeferre had already fallen back asleep, and for the moment, Enjolras was content with keeping his thoughts to himself.

Fighting had brought them all together, was what he was thinking. All of his friends had come into his life fighting, one way or another. It was poetic, in a way, that they had come together fighting and soon the fight would be over.

Would they remain friends, once the fight was won? In the new Republic, would they keep coming home to their back room to keep on drinking and laughing as always? Or would they drift apart without a common cause, drifting back into the singular characters they had once been?

And what if one of them died upon the barricade only two days from then? How could they sustain that loss and keep together?

Just then, Jehan called out, remarking on the brilliant red of the sunset. Several of the others crowded around the window to see the silhouettes of the buildings outlined against the setting sun.

Enjolras laughed to himself, sighing gently as he stood up to join them at the window, pressing into the crowd of his friends, feeling the warmth of the sun’s red light. He was being silly, thinking such things. Fighting had brought them together, and this fight would be no different. They would be together then as they were together now, and nothing could come between them, not even death.


End file.
